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“As opposed to nonfriendly angels?”
She squints up at me. “Yes. They’ll watch over you.”
Scoffing, I mutter, “Great,” under my breath and start cutting the rose branches.
“Alex,” she tugs on my flannel sleeve. “You have to cut them down lower.” She points to a specific spot on a branch. “Here.”
I throw a smirk at her. “You been studying horticulture for the past two years, little girl?”
She smiles and replies coyly, “Maybe.”
I hold the shears out to her. “Do you want to do it?”
Her eyes light up. “Can I?”
“Have at it. Just don’t cut a finger off.”
Standing back, I watch as she skillfully trims the three bushes. Her mother would probably cut my balls off if she knew I was letting her kid wield something sharp enough to lop off a limb.
“See?” Penny says, handing the sheers back to me. “That’s how you do it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Hey, does your mother know you’re here?”
“Probably not, why?”
“Because I worry about you out and about alone.”
“I’m older now.”
I love her bulletproof attitude. “You’re still just a little kid.”
“I have my own phone.” As proof, she pulls a small phone from the back pocket of her jeans. “I’ll send my mom a message and tell her I’m here.”
“A phone can’t do shit for you.” Although, I wish I’d had a phone when I was her age. Not that I had anyone to call or anyone to give two fucks about me. “By the time you call for help, you’d already be in someone’s trunk.”
She looks at me like I have a screw loose. “I’m not a regular little kid like you think.” Her fingers tap the tiny keyboard.
“Can’t argue with ya there.”
Her phone chimes and she holds it up to her face to read the screen, then turns it toward me. “She says I can stay for an hour if it’s okay with you.”
I stifle a groan. I’ve been in a shitty mood all day. The last thing I want to do is deal with anyone—especially someone’s kid. But how the hell am I supposed to tell her to leave? Especially after she avoided me for two years just because I didn’t sing “Happy Birthday” to her and shove cake in my mouth. If I tell her she can’t stay, she’ll hate me for the next ten years.
“Oh no, my finger’s bleeding.”
I follow her worried gaze to the bright blood bubbled on her fingertip. My stomach twists. I can almost taste and smell the metallic bitterness of it.
I tear my focus away. “Looks like a thorn got you.”
Her voice wavers when she says, “I don’t like blood.”
“Don’t look at it.” I lightly touch the back of her head. “Let’s go inside and get you a Band-Aid.”
The old wood porch creaks in welcome as we climb the stairs to the front door. After stepping inside, I glance over my shoulder to see Penny frozen behind me, her feet rooted to the threshold.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
Her face pales two shades as she stares into the living room. Her nonbleeding hand slowly inches up the doorframe, gripping it like a lifeline.
The last thing I need is this kid passing out in my doorway. “You okay?” I take a step toward her, ready to grab her if she starts to sway.
She nods in slow motion with a glassy and dazed look, eyes the color of sea glass. “I feel buzzy again.” Her voice is soft, almost dreamy. She rubs her hand across her face, smearing blood across her nose and cheek.
My vision blurs. My limbs vibrate.
There’s so much blood. Mine. Hers. Ours…
The memory is an invitation down sorrow and anxiety lane. I grind my teeth, refusing to succumb to it. “Hey, don’t faint on me, kiddo.”
“I won’t.” As if walking on ice, she takes a tentative step into the room, her hand remaining on the doorframe.
“You don’t have to come inside.” Her mother must’ve told her not to go into a stranger's house, and here I am, probably scaring the heck out of her. “I can get—”
“No,” she says quickly, darting into the center of the room like a little mouse. “I’ve been wanting to…” Her words drift off as she looks from the collage of wedding pictures on the wall to Bri’s old red velvet chair by the fireplace to the hallway. “…come inside.”
I’m slightly transfixed by her as she delicately touches the soft cream-colored throw blanket draped over the back of the couch, gently trailing her fingers over the tassels at the edge. She’s a twisted vision of innocence and horror when she smiles at me with her face streaked with blood.
“I like this,” she says softly.
I point to the stairway. “If you go upstairs, there’s a bathroom right across the hall. There’re Band-Aids in the cabinet under the sink. You can grab a washcloth and get the blood off your face.” She fixes her eyes on me, holding her hand close to her chest. “Can you do it yourself?”
